Evil Intent (22 page)

Bella was awake, her tail wagging with delight as Callie opened the kitchen door.

‘Hi, girl.’ Callie flopped on the floor and was rewarded with ecstatic face licks.

But the floor wasn’t very warm, and Callie wasn’t sure how soon the dog would need to go outside.

‘I’ll get dressed,’ she said to Bella. ‘Then we’ll go walkies.’

It was a pain to be on the first floor; she couldn’t just open the door and let Bella into the garden. Not that there was a garden – just a patch of grass which would have to do for emergencies. Fortunately Hyde Park was only a few minutes away.

She dressed quickly; she could shower later, Callie told herself. With a sense of doing something momentous, she clipped the lead onto Bella’s collar. Her dog. She was walking her dog.

The early morning mist hung low, giving a slight air of unreality to the proceedings. She’d never been out in the park this early, Callie realised. But she was not alone. Scores of others were engaged on similar business, and they greeted one another with familiarity and warmth. Several people spoke to her: commenting on the weather, admiring Bella, asking how old Bella was.

She had, Callie recognised, just joined a club – the fraternity of
dog-walkers.
The thought made her smile.

Later, after her shower and before it was time for her to join Brian for the Monday home communion visits, Callie rang Frances. It had been a couple of days since she’d talked to her, she thought guiltily, and Frances must be going through a bad time, after that horrible newspaper article.

Callie knew that Frances usually worked at her desk on Monday
mornings,
going into the hospital towards lunch time. She tried the home phone, half expecting it to be off the hook, and was surprised when Frances answered right away. ‘Hi, Callie.’

‘You knew it was me?’

‘We’ve invested in a caller display phone,’ Frances explained wryly. ‘Needs must. This is a vicarage, after all. We can’t very well leave the phone off the hook permanently. This way we can answer when we recognise the caller or the number.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

‘I sent Graham out on Saturday afternoon to buy it.’

‘How are you coping?’ Callie asked.

Frances gave a shaky laugh. ‘All right, I suppose. All things considered.’

‘Have the police been bothering you?’

‘No. That’s one thing to be thankful for.’ She sighed. ‘It’s just that I feel so…so violated. That dreadful article. And the one today, with all of Vincent Underwood’s poisonous innuendo.’

‘I haven’t seen that one yet,’ Callie admitted, realising guiltily that she’d been so wrapped up in Bella she hadn’t even thought about buying a paper.

‘You can imagine what it says.’ Frances changed the subject abruptly. ‘Enough of that. How did the sermon go yesterday?’

‘Oh, fine. I had some compliments.’

‘What else is new with you?’

Callie looked across at the sofa, where Bella had settled down and made herself at home. ‘You won’t believe it,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have a dog.’

On reflection, Lilith decided that Leo Jackson was her best hope for a new angle on the story, and settled on a careful approach, planning to observe him at a distance before trying to talk to him. Her starting point would be his church, where he was bound to show up sooner or later.

While doing her homework on Frances Cherry, she had also done her homework on Leo Jackson: she knew that he was something of a lefty when it came to various social causes, and had made his church into a
centre
for like-minded people. She knew that he was considered a high flyer, someone with good career prospects in the Church. She knew about his West Indian background; she’d seen a photo of him.

Yes, she knew the facts about Leo Jackson. But nothing in those bare facts had prepared her for the sheer impact of the man.

She was at the back of the church, fingering the leaflets for Amnesty International, Christian Aid and Traidcraft, when he arrived to take the lunchtime service. He strode towards the vestry, his colourful dashiki
contrasting
with his clerical collar.

Leo Jackson, she saw, was a good-looking, sexy giant of a man. Charismatic, larger than life. The sort of person who was supremely
comfortable
in his own skin. She felt slightly breathless as he swept past her.

He was, in fact, just the sort of man she could fancy. In spite of the fact that he was a vicar.

Up till now, dealing with the dried-up sticks of clergymen she’d encountered thus far, she’d adopted a conservative look, her twin-set-
and-pearls
persona. Now, though, she sensed that something else might be called for. Something a little more blatant, more appealing to a red-
blooded
man. Leo Jackson, she could see, was certainly that.

So she went home, all the way to her Earl’s Court flat, and,
chameleon-like,
changed her clothes – and her whole persona.

A dress with a bit of cleavage, spike-heeled shoes instead of flat pumps. She unpinned her neat French twist and ran her fingers through her hair, mussing it up artfully; she re-did her make-up, applying a glossy lipstick. She even took the time to paint her nails.

If she played her cards right, she might strike it lucky; she might get more than an interview out of Leo Jackson. Not right now, of course – that would be unprofessional. But when the police finally got round to arresting Jonah Adimola’s killer, then it would be a different matter.

Her active imagination carried her along in that vein as she returned to Lancaster Gate. She’d got beyond the preliminary stages of seduction,
picturing
the strong muscles of his shoulders, almost feeling them beneath her fingers, when she reached the rectory and rang the bell.

He opened the door quickly, towering above her, scarcely allowing her enough time to adjust the angle of her cleavage to provide him the best view. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Hello, Mr Jackson. I’m Lilith Noone, from the—’

His face changed. ‘I know exactly who you are, Ms Noone,’ he cut across her in a voice cold with barely disguised anger. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t be expecting a visit? After what you’ve already done, I assumed I’d be next on your hit list.’

‘Then you’ll talk to me?’ She licked her lips and looked at him through her eyelashes.

‘Like hell I will.’ Then, as he shut the door in her face, he told her where to go, uttering exactly the same Anglo-Saxon expletive that Inspector Stewart had used. It was, thought Lilith, extremely unbecoming from a
man of the cloth.

And if it was ever in her power, she would make sure that he regretted it.

Neville, realising that time really was running out for them, took a chance that he would find Frances Cherry at home. He debated about ringing her ahead of time to make sure, then decided that the element of surprise would work in his favour. If she wasn’t at the vicarage, they could probably track her down at the hospital.

Sid Cowley went with him, and on the way they discussed their
strategy.
‘We were pretty gentle with her before,’ Neville said. ‘I think it’s time to shake her up a bit.’

Cowley, who had watched too many police shows on television,
suggested,
‘How about good cop/bad cop?’

‘It might work. Which would you like to be?’

The sergeant took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. ‘Bad cop would be fun.’

‘Right. And we – you – go for the jugular about Leo Jackson. She won’t be expecting that, I reckon.’

As in the past, it was Graham Cherry who answered the door to them. ‘Frances is here,’ he said, adding protectively, ‘Is it really necessary to talk to her again? I’m sure she’s told you everything she knows. Everything that happened. I’m afraid you’ll upset her if you start pressing her.’

‘It’s necessary,’ Sid Cowley said, already slipping into his bad cop role. ‘A man’s been killed. We haven’t made an arrest yet. And that upsets
us
.’

‘Would it be all right if I sat in?’ Graham requested. ‘I won’t say
anything,
but I’d like to be there for moral support.’

Neville thought quickly. If they were going to press her about a
possible
affair with Leo Jackson, it wouldn’t be good to have her husband there; she might be less forthcoming and less inclined to come clean. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but we need to talk to her on her own.’

Graham, too, had seen his share of cop shows. ‘What about a solicitor?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t she entitled to have a solicitor present?’

‘Certainly she is,’ Neville said.

‘Why do you think she needs one?’ Cowley added belligerently. ‘We’re
just going to ask her a few questions. If she doesn’t have anything to hide, then why should she need a solicitor?’

Graham Cherry led them through to the kitchen, where Frances was boiling the kettle for coffee. ‘The police would like a few words with you, Fran,’ he warned her.

Neville looked round the kitchen and decided it was as good a place as any for the interview; there was a table where they could sit. And he was getting tired of the endless interviews conducted in clergy studies,
surrounded
by dusty tomes. ‘We can talk to you right here,’ he said. Graham retreated, casting an apologetic glance at his wife.

If she was nervous, she didn’t betray it. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, smiling. ‘It’s the good stuff, not that rubbish they serve at the hospital.’

‘That would be grand,’ Neville said.

They sat at the table while she poured the boiling water into a cafetière and rounded up several mugs.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Cowley asked, reaching for his cigarettes.

Frances hesitated for only a second. ‘All right. This will have to do for an ashtray, though.’ She passed him a clean saucer, then cracked the window open.

Cowley made a ceremony of lighting up and taking his first drag as Frances pushed down the plunger and poured out the coffee. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ she offered.

They adjusted their coffees to suit themselves; Frances took a mug through to Graham before joining them at the table.

‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ she began. ‘We’ve been over it all more than once.’

‘We’d like to ask you about Leo Jackson,’ Neville said, stirring his
coffee.

‘Leo?’ She sounded surprised, and perhaps a bit wary.

‘You’ve known him for a long time?’ asked Neville.

‘Yes, I’ve told you. We’ve been friends for years.’

Neville took a sip of coffee. It was very hot, but delicious. ‘Good
coffee,’
he approved, continuing with a question to which he knew the answer.
‘Leo Jackson isn’t married, is he?’

‘No.’ It was a monosyllable, and now Neville was sure that she looked wary.

‘Does he have a girlfriend, perhaps? Someone special?’

‘A girlfriend? No, I don’t think so.’

Cowley spoke. ‘You don’t think so. Does that mean you don’t know for sure?’

‘His private life is his own business,’ she stated after a split second’s hesitation.

‘You haven’t answered the question.’ Cowley stared at her insolently, dragging on his cigarette. ‘Do you know for sure? You’re supposed to be such great mates, after all. You must know.’

Frances was silent, biting her lip.

‘I’d like to suggest,’ Cowley said before she could reply, ‘that you do know. That you know very well. That, in fact, you and Leo Jackson are more than just friends.’

‘More than just friends?’ She sounded genuinely puzzled.

Cowley leaned forward. ‘Are you shagging him?’ He blew smoke in her face. ‘Are you and Leo Jackson lovers?’

She flushed a deep red. ‘No! How dare you suggest such a thing?’

‘Don’t you think he’s attractive, then?’

‘He’s quite an attractive man. But that has nothing to do with it,’ she snapped.

He sneered. ‘You want me to believe that you just don’t fancy him.’

Frances looked towards Neville in appeal. ‘You don’t seem to
understand.
I’m a married woman.
Happily
married. And,’ she added, ‘a priest. As is Leo.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Neville said soothingly. ‘You’re out of line, Sergeant Cowley.’

Cowley wasn’t ready to give up. ‘It’s in the papers every day,’ he stated. ‘Supposedly happily married people, having it off with someone else. Vicars, too. They’re the worst. Naughty vicars. Don’t you read the papers?’

‘I don’t suppose Reverend Cherry reads that sort of paper,’ Neville put in with a reproving look at the sergeant.

‘Or maybe you don’t fancy him because he’s black. I suppose you might be a racist.’

‘You have to believe me.’ Flushing, Frances ignored Cowley and addressed Neville. ‘I am not a racist. Leo and I are friends. Nothing more.’ She paused. ‘And besides – what does it have to do with you? I thought you were concerned with finding out who killed Father Jonah, not digging into the private lives of everyone who ever knew him.’

Callie had a busy morning, accompanying Brian on his rounds as he visited the shut-ins and dispensed communion.

Since her emotional visit with Dennis and Elsie Harrington the
previous
week, she had spoken to Dennis several times on the phone, ringing to see how they were coping. Although he hadn’t been very forthcoming, he had seemed to appreciate the calls.

So she was surprised when he opened the door to them little more than a crack. ‘My Elsie’s very poorly today,’ he announced flatly. ‘Well under the weather, she is. I think it best if you don’t come in just now, Father.’

‘I’m sure she’d like to see me,’ Brian said. ‘She’ll be wanting the Sacrament.’

‘Not today, Father. Maybe another day.’ He closed the door.

‘Well!’ said Brian. ‘That’s a first.’ He shrugged and they went on to the next visit.

But Callie couldn’t help worrying about them. Now, of all times, she would have thought that they would have wanted the comfort of the Sacrament, of Brian’s soothing words. She realised, as well, that Dennis had not been in church on Sunday; according to Brian, he never missed a week, so that was additional cause for concern.